


A Sharp Problem

by beltainefaerie



Series: I Want All of You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Caning, Case Fic, Christmas, Established Relationship, Multi, Rough Oral Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock go undercover as Santa and his Elf at a local bondage club in order to solve a case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mishima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishima/gifts).



> Thanks to Shellysbees for being a beta and cheerleader and to Bea, who prompted:
> 
> "John dressed as Santa and Sherlock sitting in his lap and asking for Christmas gifts"  
> and of course I knew what she really meant by "sitting"!
> 
>  
> 
> The actual visit to the bondage club starts in chapter 2.

**The Case of the Ice Sickle**

Sherlock leant over my shoulder. “It wasn’t a sickle, John. It wasn’t even curved!”

I deleted it and typed ‘The Case Wherein Santa Delivered Sherlock His Package’. _Definitely the most entertaining moment of the evening._ I turned to relish the way his cheeks actually darkened. “You never like my titles anyway, but I think that one might get us a whole different sort of following, don’t you think?”

He threw a pillow at me and stalked away into the kitchen. Ah, well, the title could wait.  
\---  
On December 15th Mr. Steven Coldwell, a respected businessman, was found by his neighbors face down in his own front yard, stabbed to death. The murder weapon was a rather unusual shape. Tapered, cylindrical and nowhere to be found. I hoped forensics might tell us more, but that wasn't necessary when the day was done.

According to everyone we spoke to, he was the nicest man anyone could want to meet. He had parties occasionally, but nothing too loud or out of hand. He didn’t appear to have a wife or even a steady girlfriend. His accounts didn’t contain anything out of the ordinary. All in all, he seemed to be a normal enough bloke. 

Of course, they had needed Sherlock on this one. It wasn’t enough that they had no leads until he got on the scene. No, Sherlock had to prove that they misread everything. Including the catch that let the bookcase swing free, providing access to the dungeon. Sherlock had even allowed that many people might have missed the scuff marks on the floor or the slight shift in air flow around the seams of the bookcase. Even if they were obvious. But once Sherlock revealed the hidden room, they immediately went to discussing slavery and prostitution and rape and serial killers. “Idiots.” he had remarked to me on the way home. “They act as though it looked like a torture chamber and not clearly just a plush, well-appointed boudoir.”

In such cases, it was most frequently a family member or disgruntled lover. The late Mr. Coldwell had very few of the former and, as we would discover, too many of the latter to track down with ease. With no obvious financial, property or inheritance disputes, the usual monetary motivation was unlikely, passion seemed the best route to find the killer. And judging by the vast dungeon space, clearly designed as much for pleasure as for pain, it seemed Mr. Coldwell had passion in spades. 

Luckily, Sherlock had discovered an address book in the secret room. All the names had notes beside them. Some said clear things like, “no sex” or “fond of rope,” others were more cryptic, such as “TPE”, “golden” and “SAM”. Almost all of them had SW: followed by a seemingly random word. Virtually all said “OOB,” which didn’t make much sense until we located a business card. Out of Bounds was apparently a local bondage club.  
\---  
 _Should I leave in their name?_ I was sworn to a kind of secrecy, but they do advertise. It wasn’t as if they were part of a secret underground or whatever. Still, it might be kind to check. Perhaps call later and make sure before I actually publish it. I could always say “virtually all had an acronym that turned out to be an abbreviated club name.” But maybe they’d want him to use it. Get some business out of it. After all, the blog had a fair amount of readers. Chances are that some of them were, well, might enjoy this sort of thing. Anyway, back to typing.  
\---  
As jealousy frequently turned out to be a strong motivator for all sorts of behaviour, and especially so-called crimes of passion, and most of his partners seemed to frequent the club, Sherlock came up with a plan. A ridiculous, terrible plan, but, like most of his plans, it actually worked.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock in those pointed ears and his usual above-it-all air seemed closer to Rivendell than the North Pole, but at least they were all still elves. That counted for something, I was sure. _How did I agree to do this?_ But, of course I was sure that I had done and would do stranger things for Sherlock. If nothing else, I was unlikely to ever glimpse Sherlock in that short green tunic and red and white striped stockings again, and seeing that was well worth it. Besides, it seemed like it could be fun.

We arrived an hour and a half before the party started and were given a quick tour followed by briefing by the owner on rules and their roles. We were told that we could observe whatever we liked, but weren’t to interrupt any scenes unless we were actually certain we had found their murderer. I was to perform all the duties of Kinky Klaus, since Mr. Coldwell obviously couldn’t do it this year and ‘the show must go on,’ as they say and Sherlock would assist as my elf. It would be a convenient way to casually watch and interact with all the partygoers.

For the first hour of the party, we were doing photos while the Nice List and a Naughty list were posted. People could write their friend’s or partner’s names up with notes. The folks on the “nice” list would get to sit on my lap, tell me what they wanted for Christmas, then Sherlock, as my elf, would give them a present and the next one could take their turn. Pretty simple, really.  Some store called The Crypt had donated a variety of toys, which had been wrapped for the occasion, and every guest was also entered to win some sort of larger raffle prize. I hadn’t gotten a good look at before being bustled off to the golden, throne-like chair beside a large Christmas tree that was the photo station.

Hadn’t ever thought I’d be playing Santa. _Certainly not like this._ The costume was comfortable, though, even with the padding, though the beard did itch a bit. Couldn’t work out where Sherlock got it on such notice, but it was Sherlock. I should really just give up trying to decipher how he does these things. Some favor or connection, no doubt.

\---

Sherlock smiled to himself when John wasn’t looking. Who would have thought that John would make a good St. Nick, but there he was. The false beard and padded suit were perfection. No cheap polyester for this. The red silk velvet trimmed in actual ermine was perfect for the sensual nature of the party. He knew his tailor could be persuaded to pull it off in time. Though it was hard to concentrate on details at hand when women and men alike kept perching on John’s lap. _Wriggling._

He scanned the crowd. Everyone looked festive, touches of red and green added holiday flair to the usual black and leather. So far, all Sherlock could deduce were a few minor jealousies and hurt feelings here and there, no more intense than any gathering might include. Certainly nothing that would drive one to murder.

John generally took their teasing Christmas requests with good humour and Sherlock watched his flirting with as much grace as he could muster, even managing to smile as he passed out the gifts. Watching the ‘bad’ boys and girls line up for spankings was more than Sherlock could bring himself to tolerate, however, and he was about to excuse himself for a cigarette break. John was likely to be displeased, but far less than how he would feel if Sherlock had a jealous little strop in the middle of a bloody sex club. When they were supposed to be working no less!

He was just headed out when someone caught his attention. A petite woman with brown hair and a green leather corset. The make-up she wore was not enough to cover the circles under her eyes; they were so dark they almost looked like bruises staining her pale skin. They weren’t, not quite, but certainly she had barely slept in the past two days. There was something about her, something off. He couldn’t quite place it, yet, but he would keep an eye on her.

Sherlock whispered to John that he would be right back and ducked out. Various patrons on the patio were lounging, smoking. It generally seemed like any other party, outside of their dress. Well, that, and the chubby, giggling footstool. It was easy enough to bum a fag and light. He made small talk, tedious necessity, between drags, savoring the slight burning sensation in his lungs. _He could do this. He could. And John wasn’t that observant. Surely, he didn’t have to know how the evening was affecting him._

Stepping back in, Sherlock was put out that the cigarette break was apparently not long enough. John had gotten through the spankings, so at least Sherlock didn’t need to endure the sound of those leather gloves slapping against various arses, but this was possibly worse. There he stood, giant candy striped cane in hand. John ordered the man over his chair, pressing a gloved hand to the small of his back. Sherlock gasped when John nudged the boy’s feet apart with his boot. John was a terrible actor. _So what was all this, then?_

He tore his eyes away from John, glancing around the club. A few people had started their own scenes. Again, nothing that seemed amiss. The older gentleman being whipped has fantasised this for years, but this is his first taste of the reality. Pity it couldn’t be with his wife. The five in the corner were all in a relationship and at least as interested in watching the scenes tonight as playing. Ah, that explains it. Long distance. Reacquainting with each other first. Sherlock stepped around the nervous first time top, _nothing to see there._  

\---

 _Now where was he off to?_ Oh, the smoking patio is that direction. _Brilliant._ If my hand came down a bit hard at that realisation, at least the young lady in my lap didn’t seem to mind. Whenever there were notes, I was sure to chastise them appropriately and most took their punishment with grace. A few burst into tears, but no safewords were uttered and glances or occasional words from their doms were reassuring that all was well.

As I delivered their spankings and moved on to the cane, I mused. It had been ages since I had done anything like this. I had played now and again with girlfriends in the past. Mostly rope, a bit of spanking and of course a cane; naughty schoolgirl and all that. More of a bit of fun now and again than a lifestyle.  Differently charged with this group of strangers than with a lover, but still enjoyable.

As I read through their noted transgressions, little things about violated protocol and minor offenses, it was hard not to think things like: fingers in the sugar bowl that will be 30 strokes of the cane. I smiled into my fake beard and bit my lip to avoid an actual outburst of laughter.

Sherlock slipped back over just as I was finishing the last caning. The girl was bent over the chair, stance wide, without needing to be adjusted, her raven hair cascading beautifully over the arm of the chair. “I like marks,” she had whispered before we began. And marks she received, red stripes contrasting beautifully with her honey skin. A series of 10 strikes for an unnamed offense. Neatly wielded to never strike the same place twice, and she counted beautifully, though I again had to stifle a giggle at the form, “One. Thank you, Santa. Two. Thank you, Santa.” She smoothed her skirt down and gave him a kiss on the cheek as she stepped down.

Clearly one of the stranger nights on a case. _Fantastic, though._

“A cigarette, break, Sherlock?” I asked and I couldn’t keep the disappointment from creeping into my tone.

“Yes, well, it seemed like a good chance to observe the patrons on the patio. You seemed to have everything covered here.”

Something almost petulant in that tone. _Interesting._ It never really occurred to me that Sherlock might like any of  this. He was a bit dramatic when it came to pain, and generally preferred to give orders rather than take them. But it was all about context, wasn’t it? Roles? Safe places? Definitely something to explore. _Yes, when we aren’t in the midst of helping investigate a homicide._

“I didn’t find anything overwhelmingly compelling, I am afraid,” Sherlock said, bringing me back to the present.

With our official duties done, we were free to roam, though truth be told this wasn’t a bad vantage point. We could see most of what was going on from here, aside from the patio, the refreshment room.

“What do you think of that bloke?” I asked

Sherlock stopped to marvel for a moment at the striking image of the elegant ebony domme decked all in latex from her Santa hat and suit to her black thigh high boots using a short whip to drive a slave dressed as a reindeer before her, his hooved feet clopping against the floor.

“Antlers slightly askew, but that hardly makes him a murderer,” Sherlock grinned.

“Not him! The one against the wall behind him. Seems a bit nervous.”

“Well, most people are the first time they come to a club, John. He isn’t hiding anything. Well, everyone’s hiding something, but calling in sick to your security job is hardly the same as murder. Did you meet that one?” he asked with a discrete gesture, “Green corset, black skirt?”

“Oh, yes. Bethany. Naughty list. Didn’t seem to be here with anyone. Sensed she put herself on the list, really, but there are no rules against that. She didn’t specify why, but took quite a spanking. Thanked me afterwards”

We watched as Bethany joined a couple I had met in the initial photoshoot and “Nice List” activities. They clearly knew one another. The tall dark-haired man dressed all in typical black was Master Marcus, and his submissive, a buxom blonde   _Susan? Shelly?_ had been adorably cheeky when she was getting her lap time and photo in her sexy little candy cane striped costume. At the moment, she seemed to exist to look pretty and hand him things as far as I could tell, but she was clearly enjoying it. Marcus stood Bethany against the Saint Andrew’s Cross, but didn’t use any of the attachment points. She didn’t seem to need them, staying in position as he worked her over with matching floggers, stopping now and then to caress her pink skin. After a bit, he whispered something to Shelly and she scampered off to the refreshment area, returning with a thick icicle in a plastic bag. She removed it from the bag and knelt up, offering it on outstretched palms.

He began tracing careful, swirling lines across Bethany’s shoulders and down one arm.

“Red!” Bethany shouted, her eyes widening in abject horror.

Their scene stopped and a dungeon monitor hurried over to make sure everything was fine.

“Bethy?”Marcus softened, his voice losing a bit of its commanding edge as he gently stroked his hand down her back. “No marks. See? I remembered that you like blades, but you said no marks. The cold makes it seem cutting but it won’t.”

“Put it away, put it away, put it away,” she chanted and he moved quickly to oblige, his brow furrowed with perplexity.

She was shaking, but I was distracted for a moment by Sherlock, as he leapt up muttering, “Of course. Brilliant,” and pulled out his phone. He pressed a few buttons. From the corner of the screen I could see it was clear that he was looking at the weather. He took a few strides toward their scene, stopping just beside them as he said, “They won’t find the murder weapon. Ingenious, if it had been done with purpose. Alas, it was merely convenient. The icicle must have been grabbed in anger, the first thing at hand.” Something about the set of his mouth made me certain he was lying about something. But why?

I didn’t need to waste much time wondering, though. After a moment, the stunned silence was broken by the petite brunette, still shaking.

“It wasn’t like that! We weren’t even really fighting!” Bethany sobbed. All eyes in the room turned towards her.

“It was stupid. Just a stupid joke. I’m sure you’ve seen the collection of blades in his play room, but did you even notice the fencing mats under the rug? He used it as a practice room, too.” She glanced down. “I had just gotten him a full series of sessions at a stage combat class and I was about to tell him.”

She paused for a moment, trying to keep herself together enough to speak, then began again. “I was on the porch and I was a step down. I plucked the icicle from the guardrail by the stairs and said, ‘en garde’ and he laughed. I knew he would. But when he tried to pick one for himself from the eaves to play with me, he slipped on a slick patch on the porch. It had iced over, and lost his footing and…” she sobbed again, unable to go on.

“If it was just a crazy accident, why didn’t you go to the police?” I couldn’t help but ask.

She laughed bitterly through her tears. “Have you seen the way we are looked at? Victims of actual crimes are treated like they deserved it, if they were “freaks” like us. I’m sure the police would have believed me.”

Sherlock sent off a text and the officers were escorted in.

“But you are telling the truth. Thank you, Bethany. If you would be so kind as to go with the Detective Inspector and give him your statement, I am sure everything will be verified.”

It took a while to  calm things down again after that. The owner enlisted our help in making sure everyone got a free party pass for a future evening, with the assurances that the police were not looking to be involved in what went on here and were certainly capable of distinguishing when these activities were desired, rather than being hung up the nuances of whether one could consent to assault. Once everyone was reassured that they were not going to be arrested for existing, things went back to normal. The noises of the evening resumed, the slap of leather on skin, the moans and cries of patrons in various states of pain and pleasure, sometimes indistinguishable from one another.

I smiled to myself and sank back onto the giant golden chair. “Well, now, DI Dimmock has his case solved, that’s surely what he wanted for Christmas. The owner of this fine club has the peace of mind to know that, while the death was of one of their own, it certainly was a freak accident not actually, you know, kinky. The patrons are out from under suspicion. So, Sherlock, why don’t you come, “ I patted my lap, “and tell me what you want for Christmas.”

“John,” Sherlock began, as though such a practice was ridiculous and certainly beneath him.

“Oh, Sherlock, you’ve had a hard enough time concentrating this evening. Do you think I didn’t notice your staring tonight? The blatant nudity and lingerie are too obvious for you and haven’t drawn your attention at all. Not even those young men in their leather harnesses.”

Sherlock quirked a brow at me as if to say, ‘but you noticed them, didn’t you?’ But all he said was, “Well, you weren’t exactly eyes forward, either, were you?”

“We were supposed to be watching other people, but you could hardly take your eyes off me to deduce what was going on and you know it. So now that we are done with all that, get over here, you great git,” I said, pulling Sherlock down onto my lap.

He leant down, whispering low in my ear. _Oh yes, that could certainly be arranged._


	3. Chapter 3

The party was over and all the other patrons had gone home. The building seemed so quiet now, empty as it was, especially in contrast to the riot of sounds earlier.

The owner was grateful for their help, both in solving this swiftly, without the police needing to interview all his patrons, and for soothing everything afterwards. He had been more than happy to oblige them a bit of time alone.

“Well, now. Here we are. No audience or interruptions,” I said, brushing my fingers up his legs through through the thin striped fabric. “Whatever shall I do with you?” I asked, but the question was clearly rhetorical. “Have you done anything like this before?”

“Yes, though not for years.”

More direct than he often was. _Good start, then._

“And you liked it, obviously?” He nodded assent. _Already less verbal. Interesting._ “Seems a safeword is in order, though I am not particularly interested in pushing you today.”

He waved a hand at me as if to say he didn’t care. When I asked again, he sighed, “John, it is unlikely that you will do anything that pushes me past the limits of my endurance. Unless of course you were planning speech restrictions, which might limit my ability to simply tell you what I am feeling.”

“You make that sound awfully tempting, you arse, but no. Not tonight, at any rate. Just use the club’s then, if anything goes too far.”

“I’m also tempted to put you over my knee for smoking,” I said, watching his eyes light up, “but I sense that wouldn’t be a deterrent. Far from it, in fact. And the last thing you need is an excuse for killing yourself with those things.” I paused, gauging his reaction. Slight disappointment. _Perfect._

“However,” I said pulling him down across my lap, flipping up the hem of his tunic. “Perhaps I should spank you, just because I would enjoy it.”

Sherlock was a bit startled and off balance when I began with light blows, almost teasing at first, gauging his tolerance, adding a bit more force as he squirmed. If his moans weren’t enough to tell me that my instincts were on target, his cock hardening against my thigh left no room for interpretation.  

I slid the stockings down to his thighs. His pale skin had pinked deliciously and I placed my blows carefully until his arse took on an all-over rosy glow.  I wanted to take the gloves off and feel the heat of his skin, but Sherlock reacted so beautifully to the slap of leather against his skin. In the end, I settled for smoothing the cool, supple leather over his arse between blows. Shifting my weight slightly I rocked him against my thigh until he was pushing back, rubbing himself off against my leg.

“Enough of that for now, I think,” I said, easing him off my lap to kneel in front of me. I couldn’t help but chuckle darkly at his answering whimpers. _Oh, yes, another time, it would be fun to make him beg._

I brushed his cheek with the back of my gloved hand, relishing the way he leant into the caress.

Bending forward, I tangled my fingers into his curls, and pulled him into a kiss. Quite the sensation with the beard and all. Sherlock brushed his hand over my cheek, pulling the beard away. In all honesty, I was quite surprised the tape had held up this long.

“I do prefer my doctors clean shaven, after all.”

“Definitely speech restrictions next time,” I said with a grin.

“In the mean time, I think I should just make better use of your mouth”, I said, arching up until I could slide the pants and trousers down around my ankles.  “And since you will lack the ability to speak, I will take rapid tapping to indicate ‘Red’.

I knew Sherlock had no trouble taking me deep, but in the past had done my best to keep thrusting at a minimum. In my experience, most lovers didn’t like it, and the ones that did would practically choke themselves on your cock anyway.  

Unless he was just waiting for my lead. _Oh. That was it, wasn’t it._  

Sherlock licked his lips, slowly, deliberately, lips parting in anticipation, his voice sinfully dark as he said, “Use me, John.”

I cupped the back of his head, sliding into his willing mouth, until I could feel the back of his throat. The wet heat of his mouth felt amazing as he moaned around my cock. “Christ, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

I smiled wickedly down at him as I thrust in and out of his mouth, slowly at first, making sure he could accomodate me. I swear I will never get used to the sight of him on his knees in front of me, but I wanted more of a show.

“Stroke yourself for me, but don’t you dare come without permission.” Sherlock looked up at me,  eyes were wide, a mixture of desire and defiance for a moment, before he complied, sliding the stockings further down his thigh for better access and taking himself in hand.

Not thrilled with orgasm control, but he _will_ play along. _For me._

That heady knowledge made me throb with need and I rocked my hips forward, pushing deeper into his throat. Soon, I was groaning with pleasure at every thrust, his greedy little moans, and the feel of him trying his best to swallow around me, were nearly more than I could take. Breathing hard, I willed my hips to still, stopping the quicker, jerkier thrusts that would have ended this much too soon.

He sucked hard, making a filthy wet sound as pulled him off my cock.

He was still primarily dressed, his hardness making the fabric of the elf tunic jut out obscenely. I ordered him to strip off the stockings, but leave the rest.I pulled off the gloves as I sent him crawling off to find some of those little pillow packets of lube I had seen in the play rooms.  The tiny bells at collar and hem, virtually inaudible at the party, jingled delightfully in the silence of the rooms as he hurried to obey.   

When he returned, I patted my thigh and clearly needed no further invitation, climbing up and straddling my lap as he pressed the packets of lube into my hand. He rocked his hips forward, brushing our cocks together as I undressed him, pulling the tunic over head.

With one hand against the small of his back, rutted up against him, ripping into the lube packet with my teeth. I held it out to him, never breaking eye contact, as he took it and used it to slick our cocks.

His hand rubbing up and down, pressing our pricks together felt amazing, but I could hardly wait any longer to be inside him. I used more lube to prepare his entrance as he gasped and moaned astride me. When I could tell he was ready, I shifted him on my lap.

I pinned his wrists at his back and he squirmed deliciously as I pushed him down, filling him. We both stopped for a moment as he got used to the stretch. Enveloped in his tight heat with him completely at my mercy, I wondered, not for the first time this evening, how we hadn’t thought to explore this before. I pressed him forward kissing deeply, pinching at his small, sensitive nipples, that tiny edge of pain making him clench around me divinely.

Lovely as it was, it felt too close, too gentle for how this needed to finish.

I ordered him up, off my lap and stood, positioning him so that he knelt bent over with his face pillowed against the seat of the chair. I knelt up behind him, sliding back into place. This time, there was no stopping, no moment of quiet stilling for him to accommodate the fullness. Neither of us needed it, now, just the deep, driving thrusts that would bring us off. Pulling nearly out on each stroke, I pounded into him, making him cry out.

“Come for me,” I growled. I reached around, holding him closer, my slick hand pumping up and down his cock in time with my thrusts. As he clenched and shuddered around me, I came as well, and collapsed against him.

A right sight we would have been, a mess of tangled limbs and clothes, having been far, too involved to get myself properly undressed. He glanced up at me through half lidded eyes as I withdrew.

He sighed, kneeling up and stretching a bit before curling around me.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” He merely nuzzled closer in response. Apparently words didn’t exist for him at the moment and I smiled to myself. _Who knew there was an off switch?_

It shouldn’t have surprised me at this point. I hadn’t expected Sherlock to be a cuddler, and certainly it wasn’t every time. But more often than not, he would blissfully wrap himself around me and more than once I even got him to sleep afterwards.

Not that the floor of a club was the best place to kip, afterglow or no.

“Sherlock?” I said, easing out from under.

He hummed contentedly by way of response.  

“Sherlock, I am going to get a glass a water and something to clean up.”

When I returned, he was bent over retrieving his clothes. He took the bottle of water I offered and when he said, “Thank you, John,” it was heartfelt and clearly had little to do with the drink.

We cleaned up and headed for home.

And if a candy striped cane ended up coming home wrapped in Sherlock’s coat, well, that would be an adventure for another day.


End file.
